brain vomit

Like it makes sense. Like you bring it out in me. To want to ignore every off key detail in the room. Like the lines are written on a sheet of paper.
And im reading blotches of paint.
Sitting in front of a piano I never learnt to play. I was taught to fuck on it. To cry over it. To watch it from afar. But never to play it. Never to let the notes out in harmonic melody, sweet fucking creation of a god gone dumb. Never to save up for pink hearts whose brains were screwed empty and replaced with chocolate. Never to walk the streets and think suspended bubbles, which everyone thought balloons but I knew to be condoms.
I understood the victimization of a child struck confused. By loving smiles and boundaries forced blurry. And a breath of tobacco, or, not even, cheap nicotine and cologne down my throat. Down my neck. Down your eyes. Into the recesses of you never poked by a physician. Doctor. Doctor. What the FUCK are you doing? What the FUCK are you looking for? The remainders of burnt out cigarettes I never smoked are holding me together like glue. You tell them. You measure the chances of fathering some other recreation of your cracked soul. And cringe away at the mirror upon imagining it. Your reflection is changing. Replaced by a child. You left to count your sorrows. And make sure the glue still stuck. Replaced by a child playing dress up acting grand. A child who would curiously tap upon the few pieces still somewhat intact, question them. Question me like he knew me at all. Like his questions are painting opportunities on my eyes even as his hands place cheap lipstick on my mouth. Hushing me quiet. My mind’s riot. The new oppression of a silence let loose on calm. Trying to handcuff my thoughts away from the spice in your skin. Trying to set a new fucking constitution down. With no credibility. Like any form of would be power, the immaturity of a boy gone pretentious has no credibility. No sense of want to trust. No sense of impulse to confide. Ive had the bad habit, ever since you taught me how to hide my smiles, to go against my instinct. To call my intuition sour and spill raw sugar to choke it down. And stay. Remain. Change is good. You would say. You would make us change tables. To eat at a different place. And park in a different position. While we breathed each other in. Who would have ever known that would set me up to wait for it still? Time is passing by, like a whore running away from flowers. Like my heels gone dusty in doubt. Like the answer and the question are inverted. And I started the wrong way around. Like personal pronouns could grant this validity in the spreadsheet of musical notes.